


Shards of Cranberry Glass

by FalconFate



Series: Tales of the Horseman [5]
Category: The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: Horse characters inspired by horses I know in real life, Horses, Murtagh works at a barn, Riding Instructor Murtagh, but not that kind of riding, especially the one in this story, just horses for now, not yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:47:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25716778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FalconFate/pseuds/FalconFate
Summary: Murtagh had never met a horse he couldn't like, or at least learn to appreciate. This horse presented an altogether different challenge: being the first horse Murtagh could emotionally relate to.
Series: Tales of the Horseman [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1864219
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	Shards of Cranberry Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new arrival, some complicated emotional implications, and cooing.

Murtagh had been working at Haberth’s stable for nearly two months when the “problem horse” arrived.

Murtagh arrived at the stable for work early that morning. He wasn’t the first one there, as he wasn’t one of the stablehands who mucked out the stalls, but he did like to arrive before Haberth and Felloré, the other trainer, did. He strode down the aisle of the main barn, greeting by name the horses old enough to have them, making up nicknames for those yet unnamed. The foals and their mothers were kept separate from most of the herd, and had stalls in the breeding barn. The main barn was home to the schooling horses, or “schoolies,” which Murtagh and Felloré used to teach new riders, as well as the horses for sale—most of them from Haberth’s own breeding program, but some of them sold by riders passing through, and too young or fine to yet be declared a schoolie.

But there was a new face in the aisle, which Murtagh didn’t remember seeing yesterday. It was clearly a new arrival, stabled at the end of the aisle with two empty stalls separating it from the nearest horse, and it was, quite possibly, the grumpiest horse Murtagh had ever seen.

It was an enormous chestnut gelding with a white blaze and white socks on his hind legs, and the peak of its withers must have been at least a full hand above Murtagh’s head. His hooves were the size of soup bowls, and in desperate need of a trim; his coat was dull and patchy, his shoulders speckled with gray and white spots. Worst of all was his weight: his knees and hocks were knobby, his ribs were stark against his flanks, and Murtagh had _never,_ in his _life,_ seen hips quite that pointy on a horse. The poor creature seemed to be skin and bones held together by pure spite, if the pinned ears and hateful glare thrown in Murtagh’s general direction were anything to go by.

 _Oh,_ Thorn murmured in Murtagh’s head, checking in for the morning. _Oh, dear. He looks like you._

Unsure of how to acknowledge that comment, Murtagh elected to ignore it. Instead he focused all his attention on the gelding, through the bars of the upper half of the stall door—on most of the stalls, this part was kept open, allowing the horses to hang their heads over the side and feel included in the goings-on, but newer horses and some of the ill-tempered or anxious horses were kept secluded.

As it turned out, the bars were there for two of the three reasons: as soon as Murtagh tried to get the chestnut’s attention, the gelding snorted, pinned his ears so flat against his head they nearly disappeared, rocked back on his hind legs, and charged the stable door with enough force to rattle the hinges and make Murtagh jump back in shock.

“Ah, Torselen! Good morning. I see you’ve met our new arrival,” a tired voice greeted from beside him.

‘Torselen,’ of course, referred to Murtagh. Normally, he used the name of his beloved mentor, Tornac, to disguise himself, but he had, unfortunately, already told the stable owner and his new boss, Haberth, about his horse, whom he had also named Tornac. In a panic, Murtagh had somehow combined Tornac’s name with that of his mother, Selena, and now he was stuck with the name.

Turning, Murtagh found himself face to face with a very tired-looking Haberth. “What graveyard did you drag up this poor creature from?” he asked with great concern.

Haberth heaved a heavy sigh. “Bought him for one gold mark. The man who sold him to me couldn’t wait to be rid of him.”

Murtagh frowned, looking back at the gelding, who had begun pacing disquieted circles in his stall. “Does he have a name?”

“The bloke who sold him didn’t call him any names I care to repeat,” Haberth said sadly. “The poor thing’s been mistreated and ill-cared for, and has apparently been too lame to ride for years.”

“Perhaps,” Murtagh suggested dryly, “from being mistreated and ill-cared for?”

“My thoughts exactly,” said Haberth, nodding. “Unfortunately, I don’t think he’ll sell. And he’s certainly not suited for the students to ride; apparently he all but attacked the stablehands who tried to clean his stall this morning, and he was high as a kite on the lunge line yesterday.”

“Leave him to me,” Murtagh suggested. “I’ll even come early and muck him out myself, if I can get him to trust me.”

“You're sure, Torselen?” Haberth asked doubtfully.

Murtagh smiled, hoping it was reassuring. “Trust me,” he said sincerely, “I know a thing or two about hurt and anger. I’ll work with him, see if we can work something out.”

Haberth nodded. “Alright, then. We’ll reschedule your afternoon lessons; I’d like you to start working with him as soon as possible. You can even name him, if you’d like. He needs something positive to associate with, I think.”

“I’ll do my best,” Murtagh promised, moving to the wall of saddles and selecting some for his morning lessons. Haberth left him to it, leaving the barn through a side door, probably to check on the breeding barn.

 _Perhaps that wasn’t such a wise decision,_ Thorn mused.

 _What wasn’t?_ Murtagh asked, concerned.

_Letting you name the deer-creature. You’re clearly terrible at naming. I’m glad I chose my own name, really._

Murtagh could barely strangle his own indignant squawk as he pulled saddles from their racks and brought them to the doors of the horses who would be using them. _Just because I usually disguise myself with the name that I happened to give to my horse, it doesn’t mean I’m bad at naming!_

 _Alright, alright…_ ** _Torselen,_** Thorn teased smugly.

_That doesn’t count. I panicked._

He could feel Thorn chuckling over his protests. _So, what_ ** _will_** _you name him?_

 _I have to get to know him first,_ Murtagh replied. He glanced at the gelding in question as he passed him, carrying the last of the tack his students would need. The gelding seemed to be ignoring him, but Murtagh noticed that the chestnut’s ears followed his every movement. _If I’m able to draw out who he was before he became wary of people…_

 _You won’t use the ancient language?_ Thorn asked, sounding surprised.

 _I’d rather not,_ Murtagh admitted. _I want to earn his trust._

He tried not to think too hard about the sudden warmth of silent understanding he felt from Thorn.

* * *

Murtagh’s lessons that morning went smoothly, to his great relief. Thorn helped, reminding him to stay on task whenever he became distracted thinking about what he would be doing that afternoon. He wasn’t _worried,_ not exactly; Murtagh had never met a horse he couldn’t like. But he was curious, wondering if he would be able to convince the gelding to not attack him, like he had tried through the bars.

Despite his concerns, the morning just couldn’t pass quick enough. When morning lessons were finally over, Murtagh quickly dismissed his riders and found a secluded corner to bolt down his midday meal. He was finished well before Felloré or Haberth or any of the stablehands were, which gave him a nearly-empty barn to work in.

The gelding tossed his head and flattened his ears once again when Murtagh came close, but didn’t try to ram down his door this time. He was completely still, stiffly wary, as Murtagh opened his stall door and stepped inside with a halter in hand; he made no complaint when Murtagh drew it over his head, but didn’t relax, either, even when Murtagh gently led him into the aisle.

The gelding remained stiffly compliant as Murtagh made quick work of cleaning his hooves, but he tensed and threw a rotten horsey glare in Murtagh’s direction when he began brushing his coat. Instead of drawing it out, Murtagh tried to make quick work with the brush, and only gave the gelding’s hindquarters a cursory flick when the gleding lifted a leg in a threatening manner, though he never actually followed through with a kick. Overall, the poor gelding seemed simply defensive, rather than aggressive.

Remembering that the gelding hadn’t been ridden in a few years, and unsure what the gelding would think of a saddle and rider, Murtagh decided to lunge the gelding instead. He found suitable bandages to wrap around the gelding’s legs, a cavesson and bridle that both fit, and a lunge line. Since he simply wanted to see how the gelding moved when allowed to move freely, he didn’t bother with a surcingle or side reins.

Nearly ready, Murtagh began to lead the gelding down the aisle toward the arenas. He paused at the side door which led outside to select one of the long lunge whips leaning against the wall—at which point his arm was nearly pulled from its socket as the gelding spun away from the whips with a scream of a whinny, wild-eyed and snorting in alarm.

“Woah!” Murtagh forced his exclamation of alarm to relax into a longer, soothing appeasement. He left the whips alone where they were, presenting his empty hands to the gelding. “Woah, love. Easy now, it’s alright. You don’t like whips, huh?”

Still breathing heavily, the gelding fixed one of his great dark eyes on Murtagh. Murtagh made sure to keep his movements slow and deliberate as he stepped closer again, bringing a hand to the gelding’s neck to rub along it in what he hoped was comfort. “We won’t use the whip today, then,” Murtagh promised. “But we still have to work. Come on.”

Slightly hesitantly, the gelding followed Murtagh into the arena, and stood quite quietly while Murtagh closed the gate. He flicked his ears about as he followed Murtagh into the middle of the ring, but seemed curious of the new space rather than spooked.

Murtagh began unspooling the long line in his hand, leading the gelding on a circle at walk for a few steps before stepping back and letting the gelding widen the circle. “Walk on,” he commanded sternly, and was pleasantly surprised when the gelding began marching with a strong forward walk in a wide, even circle around him. Murtagh spun in place to follow him with the line, repeating his command of “Walk on” every few steps to help the gelding keep his rhythm; this changed to “Trot! Trot on!” when Murtagh decided he was ready for the next gait.

The gelding’s stride was stiff at first, but as he moved he began to relax, extending his head forward and down and stretching through his back and topline. As the stretch allowed his shoulder to loosen, his stride became longer and more powerful, and soon Murtagh had a very happy horse on the lunge line.

It was about thirty minutes later, after Murtagh had made the gelding change direction a few times to keep the work even on both sides, that he decided they were finished with exercise for the day. The poor gelding, though valiantly pushing through, was clearly very out of shape, and sweating profusely along his sides and between his legs. On the bright side, the gelding was much more relaxed, and seemed less averse to Murtagh patting his lower jaw affectionately as he led him inside.

The gelding’s good mood continued into the barn as Murtagh unwrapped the leg bandages and removed the bridle and cavesson, and he didn’t even flick an ear when Murtagh began sponging him off and rubbing him down.

“You’re really very sweet, aren’t you?” Murtagh cooed as he found a particular spot just below the enormous chestnut’s ear that made the gelding sigh happily and stretch his head forward. “You just needed some love and respect. I’ll be sure to tell Haberth about the whip, hmm? No more whips for you, sweetheart, that’s for sure.”

 _Your cooing is delightful to listen to,_ Thorn informed him cheerfully.

 _Is it because you miss me cooing at you?_ Murtagh teased.

_…maybe._

Murtagh chuckled as he gave the gelding a final once over, letting him sniff and then nuzzle into his hand for the treats Murtagh had hidden in his palm. _We’ll have to make up for lost time, then. You were not a hatchling for very long._

 _Oh, I suppose,_ Thorn sighed, feigning reluctance. _If you insist. You should do it when you see me this weekend, get it over with._

 _Aww, you want to schedule a cooing session?_ Murtagh asked gleefully. _You’ll only allow authorized cooing from this moment forth?_

 _Unauthorized cooing!_ Thorn exclaimed in mock-horror, which quickly devolved into ripples of mirth that echoed across their connection. _You’ll be fined! Fined, I tell you!_

 _Well, I have a job now,_ Murtagh replied, reverting to his normal voice as he stabled the gelding and began gathering his things, since he was now, technically, done for the day. _I could actually pay a fine._

 _Dragons don’t believe in money,_ Thorn informed him seriously as he left the barn. _You’ll be fined in shiny rocks._

 _Ah, and there lies the tragedy,_ Murtagh bemoaned, stretching as he rounded a corner for a shortcut to reach his lodgings, _for I am bereft of shiny rocks. Fie, for shame! I shall have to scour the countryside, searching for a glimmer of that which can pay my debt._

He felt Thorn’s laughter, and they lapsed into a comfortable mental quiet—which was quite at odds with the bustle even of Therinsford’s side streets, where shopkeepers and tradesmiths who had better afternoon traffic were still hawking their wares, and other folk were returning home from early-started days at work.

Therinsford had a handful of schools, and they had all finished for the day, so various children—some of whom Murtagh recognized from the riding lessons he gave—were also running amok in the streets, playing and laughing and generally getting underfoot with a cheerful, carefree air. It was a sight he had never seen before the end of Galbatorix’s reign, even in some of the townships that claimed to be happy under his rule.

Murtagh and Thorn both agreed that it was a nice change.

Soon enough, Murtagh reached the boarding house where he currently stayed. His room was narrow and the bed was cramped, but at least he had his own, and it was in the quietest corner of the building. He stretched out on the bed as best he could with a heavy sigh; he’d hardly done a full day of work like he usually did, but he was emotionally worn out. The chestnut gelding seemed to him a mirror into the past—specifically, Murtagh’s own past, when he had been defensive, and held every emotion and secret close to his chest even as he longed to share just _some_ of it with someone else, and not be turned away.

He felt Thorn’s consciousness settle into his own with a comforting weight, like a heavy blanket, their two souls fitting together like polished puzzle pieces. Everything Murtagh had felt that day, and everything Thorn had felt that day, all of it was laid bare and given room to breathe, to be mulled over and processed and accepted. This was something of a routine of theirs, offering themselves up like this, to remind each other that they weren’t alone.

Despite even Murtagh’s tangled knot of emotions about the gelding and how he related to Murtagh’s own self worth, it wasn’t long before Murtagh was able to really relax, and begin dropping off into sleep.

 _What_ **_will_ ** _you name him?_

 _Hmm?_ Murtagh answered sleepily, already half in dreams.

 _The deer-creature,_ Thorn pressed gently. _What will you name him?_

 _Not sure yet,_ Murtagh murmured in reply, burrowing deeper into his blankets. _Something that fits him. Something… noble._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I started my morning with a tornado warning.
> 
> Hooray.
> 
> The titles of the work and the chapters aren't inspired by any particular thing, but I am currently OBSESSED with cranberry glass, it's so pretty. And the fact that it's red, and it's glass so it's fragile, and chestnut coats are red, and Murtagh's dragon and sword and general aesthetic are all red… you get the idea. Perfect analogy.
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are much appreciated! Hope y'all are doing well!


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